


The War Prince

by AniJen21



Category: Animorphs - Katherine A. Applegate
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-28
Updated: 2008-09-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 16:12:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17584139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AniJen21/pseuds/AniJen21
Summary: A bitter villain in the Animorphs universe is perhaps more than he seems. A character study I did into Alloran after I finished re-reading the Hork-Bajir Chronicles last night. Probably been done before, but R/R anyway!





	The War Prince

<We can try again, Jahar. More children, some live.>He cited an old Andalite axiom, hoping it would quell some of the pain. The look that came across his wife's face showed that he had done the opposite.  _Of course there could be more,_  he chastised himself.  _She wanted this one. I wanted this one._

<When can you come home?> The beautiful, sad figure in the viewscreen asked. This was a question he had been dreading, but a part of him was glad to get it out of the way early. People in grief always tended to cut to the chase.

<I've put in a request for emergency shore leave to my superior officer. I will be honest, my love, I am not sure how soon it will be. We are facing somewhat of a crisis here.>

<Crisis,> Jahar repeated, as if the concept should be foreign to her. Her cold eyes drilled through Zero-Space and straight into his hearts. Why did tragedy always strike simultaneously? He wanted nothing more than to shut down communications, go AWOL and tend to his brokenhearted wife. Abandoning his post and career were not the issue. He could not abandon his entire race, which, for the first time in history was on the brink of potential defeat. His idiot of a superior had unleashed a force upon the galaxy the likes of which had never been seen. Greedy, selfish, unrelenting bastards who would swallow everything without even thinking to chew. Dozens of committees had warned Prince Seerow about the dangers of trusting an unknown race. But in his charity and blind trust, he had given the Yeerks life. He had given galactic, sensual life to an entire race.

Alloran couldn't even give that to an infant.

That was what she had said, when she had called to inform him. <It is no one's fault,> she had repeated, sadness behind her eyes itching to burst through. But, like all women, she preferred cold interaction to true feeling. He hated himself for that. Why couldn't she allow herself to be sad around him? Why didn't she trust him? He hoped the distance was the only cause. He would have wrapped her in his arms and allowed her to sob into his chest for days if he had been with her. But it is difficult to comfort someone when light years separate you.

 _No one's fault_ , he reminded himself as he searched for something to say to his wife whose impatience was bordering on anger. <I love you, Jahar. I will come home as soon as time allows.>

<I love you too, my Prince,> she said, half of a smile coming to her stalk eye. Her attempt melted his hearts, though he wanted nothing more than to say something that would make it genuine.

<Please get some rest. Call your sister. Do not suffer through this alone. As soon as I am able, I will take the first transport home. Be strong, my love. More children, some live.>

Her smile dropped and tears bubbled out of her eyes. He had said the wrong thing once, he didn't know why he said it again. She terminated communications with him and he dropped from the view screen.

Infant mortality for Andalites had been a huge problem at one time. The shape of an infant, coupled with the fact that breech births were common and disastrous, suffocated many of the younglings before they could burst into life and air. Medical technology had done much. Hundreds of thousands of years ago, Andalite midwives had discovered how to adjust the position of a fetus before birth. Since then, relaxation and meditation techniques had been developed, allowing the mother full concentration on bringing life into the world. Recently, technological advances in creating sterile, perfect holographic delivery assistants and full infant monitoring had made infant mortality nearly obsolete.  _Only when science can fix something completely is it worth anything_ , Alloran sighed to himself. His colleague put a hand on his shoulder and bowed his stalk eyes in sympathy. Losing a wife or a parent was difficult. Losing a child was something else entirely.

But Alloran could not bring himself to blame his wife or science or anything else. The defect must lie with him. If he had been there for the birth, could he have done something? Would his help and comfort have saved the life of the child? Or was the defect even deeper and more foundational than that? Had it been a rogue gene, a physical flaw that had killed him? The faceless, nameless, stillborn. He wondered what he looked like. If he had Jahar's eyes, his shoulders and tail. What would they do with the body? What was protocol for this?

<Warrior Alloran, the meeting has begun,> an _aristh_ told him. The young cadet was unaware of the tragedy. Part of him preferred that.  _Let them treat me normally. I do not wish for their unpracticed sympathy._  No one ever knows how to treat you when you lose something they can't comprehend.

As he made his way across the foul Yeerk terrain to meet his superior officer, sadness turned to anger. Too much death for him to deal with. Too much defect. How could he be expected to handle all of this alone?

He could still control himself when he entered the scoop. But when he saw the female child, standing in the corner, as if his Prince were taunting him with the life he had been able to produce, comparing it to his own impotence, his rage burst through.

He chastised his Prince in front of his daughter. He blamed, yelled, condescended. His rage turned into eloquence, and his Prince, usually well-spoken and good-humored, turned into a terrified, bumbling idiot. He himself coined the term "Seerow's Kindness," though it was not something he could be particularly proud of. All the time, he watched the little girl in the corner, the girl so full of curiosity and life. If she had been his, he would never have brought her to such a nightmare place. He would have taught her the names of the trees and grasses. He would have showed her what time of day was best to eat the blue grass, and why we needed to eat the red grass, even though it did not taste as wonderful. He would have run with her over the Andalite homeworld, laughing and joking and loving. At some point, he would have given her a brother or sister so she would not be so alone. When she was old enough, he would have approved of a mate for her, and perhaps she would have given him grandchildren. He could have built a family.

When he was finished, now a War-Prince instead of just a lowly warrior, he burst through the scoop and cried. He cried until his hearts were empty and his eyes were dry. He cried to the terrible Yeerk sun, burning his skin with Kandrona rays that gave life to his enemies. He cried because life was something he was unable to give. Why could something that came so easily to others be so difficult for him?

He went home soon after that. Jahar did not cry into his chest for days, but he did hold her for hours as she released the grief she'd been unable to let go of without him there. He had already emptied himself a few times. Soon, there was nothing left. Crying only helps for so long. There is a point when the grief is too deep to cry away.

They tried again. More children, these lived.

He had a family now, and his happiness burned through much of the grief. He taught his son how to tail fight, and he taught his daughter math and science. She was very good at  _n-_ dimensional geometry. She would make a fine mathematician.

Soon, however, duty called him away again. When he reached the Hork-Bajir homeworld, he met Seerow's daughter again. She was no longer an infant. She was an adolescent who had lost her entire family. She had grown into a young, impressive warrior, goal-driven and mad with grief. It pained him to see that same kind of grief in her eyes that still revisited him from time to time. She had become cold and vengeful like his wife had been. He recognized her quest for vengeance as both a blessing and a curse. Jahar had been unable to pinpoint a force to seek revenge upon. Aldrea had hers. Was this better? Would this fulfill her grief, would it complete the cycle of destruction? Or would it only exacerbate her sadness, intensify the loss? He pitied her, but there were more important things to worry about.

They were losing the Hork-Bajir homeworld.

The Arn were aloof and unhelpful, the Hork-Bajir were dim and untrainable, and the Andalites were too few. Yeerks spread over the planet's surface like a virus, infecting perfect hosts that were unable to realize what was happening to them. Curse the Arn for refusing them intelligence. Curse the "seer" and the girl for their insolence. Curse his own incapacity to lead. Curse his impotence.

He created the virus as a last resort. Death was not something he cherished at all, but perhaps, in some cases, it was necessary. As the computer slowly manufactured the deadly Quantum virus, he forced himself to imagine the Hork-Bajir parents who would lose their children. Wives losing husbands. Sisters losing brothers. Friends losing friends, living only long enough to feel the grief and die themselves. He found himself wondering if the Hork-Bajir were intellectual enough to feel that grief, but then he cursed himself for it. Grief was universal. You did not need a particularly strong mind to feel completely undone by loss. A strong mind, perhaps, could cope better. Which made this potential crime even worse.

It was right, then, that he should be blamed for the release of the virus. That the insolence he was unable to control would be his undoing. The silly girl and her underqualified "seer" stole the virus and released it accidentally. History remembered him for the horrifying act. Perhaps this was better. A young warrior, shamed to be associated with him, chastised, condescended, and yelled at him until he became a bumbling, terrified idiot. They did not relinquish his rank. Some believed him, about the girl. Others thought it incredibly cowardly that he sought alibi with a person they considered to be dead. Either way, it was appropriate that he received the blame. He wondered if the loss of his son had been a penance to this monstrous act. Can we be punished for crimes before we commit them?

He went home for a long time after this. His wife, though she said she believed him, always met his eyes with a look of vague suspicion. His son, wild with hormones and misplaced angst, vowed never to speak to him again. Only his daughter, who had recently accepted a position at the  _n-_ dimensional topography institute on the other side of the planet, wrapped her arms around his waist and forgave him. As he stroked the back of her head, he remembered back vaguely to that day when Seerow's Kindness was unleashed. He and his ex-superior officer were not so different, after all. Each had ensured the destruction of the galaxy in their own way. Seerow, through love. Alloran, through impotence.

Was it wrong to admit that so much was out of our control?


End file.
